“Now, friend,” said I, speaking as kindly as I knew how, because he was a dying man, “what can I do for you?”
He opened his lips to speak, and then closed them again and gasped for breath, his eyes all the time keeping themselves fixed on me with the same frightened look.
“Come,” I said, “there is no need for fear. Tell me what you want, and I promise you shall have it.”
“Alas, Master Dale!” said he, “you are very kind to me, and I deserve none of your kindness. Sir, fetch me some clergyman, and let me talk to him. I cannot die until I have eased my mind.”
“If that be all,” I answered, “your wishes shall be gratified on the instant;” and I went down to the host and told him what was desired.
“Why now,” said he, “let me see, there is Master Budgett and Master Brewer, that are both godly men and have their churches close at hand.”
“Let it be Master Brewer,” said the hostess.
“ ’Tis an elderly man and hath the prettiest way with him, sir, at a deathbed. La now, our Marian shall run for his reverence in a trice, and I lay he will come at once, whether he be at prayers or meat.”
So the girl ran straightways for good Master Brewer, and I went back to the sick man, who sat plucking at the bedclothes with his fingers.
“There,” said I, “we have sent for a clergyman, and he will come to you presently, so you may make yourself easy on that score;” and therewith I sat down in the window to wait until the parson came, so that the man might not be alone. But all the while I sat there he said no word, only his eyes continually rested on me, and his fingers never ceased plucking at the sheets.
Now, the girl Marian let no grass grow under her feet, but ran quickly to Master Brewer’s vicarage, which was not many hundred feet away, so that but a few minutes passed before the hostess came up the stairs and ushered the worthy Vicar into the sick man’s presence.
“This way, your reverence,” quoth she. “Alas! the poor gentleman hath been very particular to see your reverence and talk with you for his soul’s health. Pray God he make a good end—as, indeed, he cannot fail to do with your reverence to attend him. But here is the poor gentleman—how do you find yourself now, sir?—so I will leave your reverence to talk with him for his benefit.”
“Good mistress,” said I, for she showed no signs of suspending her remarks, “let us go downstairs, as you say, and leave this good gentleman and the sick man alone together;” and therewith I got her out of the chamber and conducted her downstairs, so that the parson and the stranger should be private.
“Alack!” quoth she, as we reached the parlour, “I fear me the poor man is not long for this world. Will it be a crowner’s quest matter, think you, master?”
“Nay, mistress, I cannot say. The man is not dead yet.”
“An a’ hath not death in a’s face I never saw one that had,” said the host. “Yea, and may think a’s self lucky that a’ died not by the roadside.”
While the clergyman was occupied with the sick man I sat in the chimney-corner and smoked a pipe of tobacco, which habit I had contracted during my stay in London, having been inducted into it by Master Goodfellow. For many a time when I was in that great city I felt lonely and needed something to warm my heart, for which complaint Master Goodfellow recommended tobacco-smoking as being a capital remedy. And such I truly found it, and carried home with me a great supply of that blessed herb, which is one of man’s chiefest treasures, whatever King James may have said to the contrary.
Now, Master Brewer was engaged with the dying man for a long time, so that I smoked two pipes, and was just thinking of filling a third, when he came down the stairs and approached me. Then I noticed that his face was very grave, and that he looked at me narrowly, as if he wished to know what manner of man I was.
“Let us go into some private room, Master Dale,” said he. “I have something of consequence to say to you.”
“Come you into the little parlour, your reverence,” said the landlady. “I warrant you might talk secrets there for a month o’ Sundays without anyone being the wiser.”
So into the little parlour we went, and closed the door, and the clergyman, who was old and gray, and not unlike our own parson in soberness of appearance turned to me.
“Master Dale,” said he, still looking gravely at me, “Master Dale, I trust you are a Christian man.”
“Why, sir,” said I, “I trust I am, though I dare say there is room for improvement in me. Certainly, I have always tried to do my duty.”
“You will need to exercise a very Christian virtue,” said he, “when you hear what I have got to tell you.”
“What virtue is that, your reverence?”
“The virtue of forgiveness, Master Dale. Yon poor soul, that is near drawing his last breath, would have you forgive him before he goes before his Great Judge.”
“Would have me forgive him, sir? Alas! the poor soul, he is out of his mind. He hath never injured me.”
“Are you so sure of that? Is there no wrong ever done to you and yours which presents itself to your mind?”
“No, sir,” I said, shaking my head, “I cannot say that there is—at least, not that this man could have aught to do with. The poor man must be out of his mind, your reverence. I have seen him but twice in all my life, and upon
